Colors of the Soul
by gummybearlover13
Summary: Takes place during Korean War in the 1950’s – Christine is a talented soprano, however carries no passion in her music. Her world is colorless, her craft meaningless. Until one day, a strange viewer watches her performance, and from the moment she sees him, he sets her world ablaze.


Hello again! Since I haven't seen too many modern(ish) E/C works (after late 1800s), I decided to write my own; but, then again, there could be thousands of modern stories that I haven't gotten to because I'm lazy. This is based off of a prompt that I saw online. Although I don't remember who posted it or where I saw it, the idea stuck with me, grew legs, and ran away. So, here I am. You have been blessed. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this, and I am actually going to attempt a longer story, so please RxR and let me know if there is anything you want to see, any criticisms, etc.

 **Disclaimer – I do not own the Phantom of the Opera, nor any of the contents within the ALW/Gaston Leroux franchises.**

Summary; Takes place during Korean War in the 1950's – Christine is a talented soprano, however carries no passion in her music. Her world is colorless, her craft meaningless. Until one day, a strange viewer watches her performance, and from the moment she sees him, he sets her world ablaze.

oOo

Present Day

Christine woke to color. Bright, vivid hues surrounding her, enveloping her. Even though she had been married to Erik for roughly two years, she had yet to grow accustomed to the shades greeting her every morning. Erik. The thought of him drove her to shift onto her side, her mahogany irises meeting his sea green ones.

"Good morning," he whispered, deep accented timbre caressing her like velvet.

"Morning," she replied, never tearing her gaze away. He was perfect; the ideal image of a man. She reached out to brush away a wayward strand of raven hair, placing the stubborn lock into his thick mane. His long black lashes fluttered at her touch, brushing her wrist gently. She smiled. "How did you sleep?"

His gaze bore into her, carrying an intensity she found difficult to ignore. "Quite well, actually." he said, a faint hint of a smile tugging at his pale features.

"I'm glad," she said, unconsciously tracing the scars on his chest, "you deserve it."

He chuckled. "Perhaps."

The two laid in silence, basking in the contentment that came with having the other there. During the time that Erik had been gone, Christine's world had faded, the vividness of her environment dimmed; the fact that he was here was more than she could have ever asked for. They had come such a long way since the day he had studied her, rare turquoise gems filled with unadulterated adoration. It seemed so long ago now, merely a memory stored away in the corners in a world which might have been.

oOo

December 1952

Christine gazed ahead, scanning the audience with an eye that did not take in any of her surroundings. The roaring applause from the crowd bypassed her, the soft melodies from the orchestra unregistered. She felt hollow; her performance had been filled with such raw feeling and passion, a vivid display of emotion bursting forth from her character. However, standing on the stage, no trace of the previous intensity could be found, no euphoric triumph. She had grown used to the grey dullness of her world – she had accepted this long ago – and yet, she felt loss. In that moment, a man caught her eye. Her gaze lingered on him, unable to move. His eyes…such a rich green. She knew she was drowning, falling into their endless depths and – _wait_. She was seeing color. She tore her gaze away, drinking in the wide array of shades around her. It was a sensation like no other. It was gratitude, wonder, euphoria, bliss, untainted joy; even in the poor light, the colors seemed to scream out in an unheard symphony. Christine felt her jaw drop, felt her dainty porcelain hand cover thin scarlet lips, but she wasn't aware of what she was doing. She wanted to convey every thought of gratitude, every thanks to this spectator; however, when she reverted her gaze back to him, he was gone. A single red rose rested in his place, a black ribbon tied around the thornless stem. She smiled, the first real smile she had ever given – the feeling devoured her, a beautiful death of sorts.

"Christine!" Meg Giry weaved through the cast backstage, a tiny blonde torpedo in a sea of props and costumes. She could hardly contain the elation radiating throughout her, barely reign in the excitement that threatened to tear through her. "Ah, Christine! There you are, I've been looking for y - "

"Oh, my God, Meg! You're blonde?" Christine interrupted, her deep brown eyes brimming with tears.

"Yes," she said, shaking her head in exasperation, "I am. I always have been."

"Meg, I can see color! I – I can see the red carpet, the black curtains. Oh, Meg, I can see it all! It's beautiful."

"That's wonderful, Christine." Meg responded pulling out a letter from her pocket. "I was asked to give you this."

"Whom is this from?" Christine asked, studying the immaculate script on the front of the envelope.

"It's from a gentleman who attended the performance tonight. He had the strangest eye color – I don't know how to describe it. They were sea green, a rich and gorgeous color. He seemed to fancy you, if I do say so myself."

"That's rather bold, Giry."

Meg rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. I'll leave you and your admirer to your little romantic escapade. And, just so you know, I stand by my judgement. When you and the mysterious green – eyed Gary get married, I will finally have my victory."

Christine laughed, the genuine sound reverberating throughout the room. "Why Gary?"

"Shut up, Christine. All I'm saying is, don't be mad when I burst out in an 'I told you so' ritual. I really have to go, but I expect to see you for tomorrow night's performance?"

"Yes. Travel safe, Meg."

Meg shut the door, leaving Christine to ponder the note. The script was beautiful, a gem of calligraphy. The lines wove together, creating a quilt of words across the pristine white paper.

 _Miss Christine Daaé –_

 _I hope this letter finds you well. I felt that, after the stunning performance you delivered tonight, it would be improper of me not to sincerely congratulate you. You have accomplished great things, and I expect that you will continue to give such passionate acts in the future. Well done, Miss Daaé._

 _Sincerely,_

 _E_

Christine smiled, her thumb running over the flowing artistry. She hadn't an idea of who the man was, but felt connected to him and, in a way, perceived the man who had given color to her world her soulmate. She nearly chuckled, shaking away the star struck thoughts of love, the petty whimsicality of the whole ordeal. She walked out onto the cold streets of Chicago, ignoring the biting wind against her cheeks. Christine felt lighter, as if a weight she had not known existed had been lifted from her chest. The colors had faded from her vision once more, and yet even as the tragic reality set in, she did not feel the familiar form of emptiness return. It was strange and comforting, leading her to the conclusion that her newfound sense of purpose was because of this man; a purpose that would never fade, never fall apart. She basked in the feeling of finality, relishing in the assurance that only this man could give her – the assurance of a bright future that laid ahead.

oOo

 **A/N – Well, that was chapter one! Let me know what you think!**


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